


Delusion

by orphan_account



Series: Post-Sburb [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Implied Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You don’t have dreams, or visions; you have violent bursts of dissociation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delusion

You have a problem.

You’ve had a problem all of your life.

One of your earliest memories is looking down at your hands, seeing the wrong color, and crying. You were absolutely inconsolable for a good hour and you didn’t understand _why._ Your parents worried, and they watched you closely for any explanation for your strange behavior.

They started buying you a lot of long-sleeved shirts.

It isn’t seeing your skin that triggers it . . . at least, that isn’t the whole reason. You could look at your hands or any other part of your body and be just fine—sometimes—but sometimes just looking in a mirror and seeing eyes that aren’t yellow and grey can leave you wheezing and crying or screaming and shaking and clutching your head like your mind is going to tear right through your skull, finally free of this not-right person.

When you were eight, all of the mirrors but one were taken out of your house—your parents kept one in their bathroom, which was always locked to you. You were confused, and a little bit hurt—did they hate you? Were they angry at you for getting upset? Was that why they got rid of all of the mirrors?

You didn’t understand. You think you do now, sometimes. You know they love you, and they want you to be happy.

Happy and normal.

You wish you could be that for them.

Buying you clothes that cover your skin and getting rid of mirrors didn’t solve anything though. You couldn’t very well cover every inch of your body all of the time, and they couldn’t get rid of every reflective surface in the world. It was more than that though.

Sometimes, just hearing the name they gave you sends you into a rage, because _that isn’t your name._ It isn’t, but sometimes it is, and it’s confusing and it makes your head hurt and you know it frightens them and you refuse to tell them what your “real” name is because you’re trying so, so hard to be “normal”.

One night they found you lying on the floor at clawing at your scalp because your horns were gone and where did they go and why is your hair wrong why is your skin wrong where is your lusus what is this thing where is your recuperacoon?

Your parents both cried as they held onto you and you demanded to know where you were and who they were—and you cried too because the back of your mind knew they were your parents and you loved them but every other part of your mind screamed that they were unfamiliar humans and _where was crabdad?_

They tried to get you help. They sent you to a specialist that you recognized almost immediately—despite her being far too old and everything being the wrong color. You almost had another attack right there and then, but choked it back because you were doing this for your parents. You would be normal for them, and make them happy.

The specialist sometimes looked at you strangely out of the corner of her eye, or her voice would crack or wobble when she asked you about your attacks. You became convinced that she recognized you too, and sometimes you would try to lead the conversation toward her, trying to coax out of her some confirmation. She would have none of it. It was pointless.

You still see her every now and then, though you both know, deep down, that it’s a waste of time and money. Nothing has changed, but if it makes your parents feel better—makes them feel like they’re helping you—then you’ll lie on that couch for the rest of your life.

Nothing helps, though. There are triggers everywhere. Your skin, your hair, your eyes, your name, people on the street, and your friends . . . all mines beneath your feet: two months ago you punched your best friend in the face for telling you his name wasn’t John. His nose was broken in two places and you locked yourself in your room for a week. He got better and forgave you, but you didn’t forgive you. You still haven’t forgiven you.

The attacks are taking over your life. Maybe they’ve always had control.

The worst one happens when you see _her_. It’s awful because it isn’t the same as the others. You’re not screaming or crying or shaking or wheezing. You’re just frozen and staring.

Her hair isn’t as long as it should be. Her eyes aren’t quite the right color. There a million other little differences telling you she isn’t who your brain is telling you she is.

Still, it’s her.

Those not-quite-green-enough eyes—you know you caught them staring at you. You’re sure. You’re so, so sure that she recognizes you. You’re absolutely certain that she sees through the pink human skin and brown human eyes and sees _you._

She keeps walking and your heart drops into your stomach. You try to push her name out of your throat and through your mouth but your voice is cracking and straining. You try again. You repeat it over and over until you can finally muster enough volume for her to hear you.

She freezes for a moment.

It’s _her._

Then it rushes in.

You’re bowled over by memories and emotions and your vision is clouding and your eyes are swimming with tears and you rush after her.

You’re scared. You know that if you give in this time you might never get yourself back. You’ll be the person your parents have tried to protect you from for so many years. You may never feel right in your “human” body again. Yet you can’t stop running. You’re pushing yourself harder than you ever have.

You can’t stop running, because that’s Jade Harley.

You call out her name again, over and over. Finally she stops and you can see that she’s shaking from head to toe. You’re barely a foot away from her when she collapses to her knees, crying, and you don’t know whether to smile or sob because _she remembers you._

You keep saying her name, over and over as you throw your arms around her and she digs her nails into your sweater. She says your name too, and it’s the first time you’ve heard someone else say it since you were born into this human body.

She’s Jade Harley, and you . . .

You’re Karkat Vantas.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a few requests to expand on Figment, so I figured I'd do Karkat's side.


End file.
